Jefferson's head

There it was, a detached head in the forest, a head without ears -
where were the ears? - and I found it without looking or knowing it was
there. But it was there alright, half buried in mulch. The detached
head of a man. Face down and earless. His hair, tangled and dark brown,
grew down to his shoulders - or where his shoulders should have
been.
I took the discovery in my stride and slowly put down my bag. Then it
began to rain. Typical.
I removed my jacket, which was made by Giorgio Armani, and hung it on a
low tree branch. My trousers were Armani too, but I wasn't about to
take them off. The rain was cold, after all. I shoved my shirt sleeves
up past my elbows, so they wouldn't interfere with the task in
hand.
The forest was thick and allowed only pieces of light through to the
floor, but they couldn't stop the rain coming through. The rain was
heavier now - louder too - and trickled down my arms, seeking out the
veins on the back of my hands. My shirt stuck to my back. Droplets
waited on my fingertips. And it felt as if the rainwater was mixing
with my blood.

How to extract the head from the forest floor? I wasn't in the business
of carrying a pair of surgical gloves with me, so I had two clear
choices. One: I could leave the forest, an hour's walk, get in my car
and drive to the nearest town, where I'd have to locate a pharmacy and
hope they stocked surgical gloves. But I could attract suspicion -
stranger rides into town, buys up town's supply of surgical gloves,
leaves in mysterious circumstances. It wouldn't look good if the local
police found the head and some snooping pharmacist had scrawled my
car's registration number on a scrap of paper.
Or, my second option, I could just turn the damned thing over with my
bare hands. I was worried about fingerprints (I had seen too many
movies to just dive in like I was picking a potato) but I was pretty
sure that damp, dead flesh wouldn't hold a print.

to be continued...